extractive economies, we like.

I have become the patron saint of lost causes. A little eight pound rez puppy – multi-hued, mix of breeds in its blood indecipherable – follow me home as a north wind pushes big wet April snowflakes into my chest. This is not a first time occurrence. Today the little black and brown mutt with a red collar followed me for two hundred yards and then scratched on the door leading into my apartment complex, which abuts the door to my actual apartment, for five minutes. I took a piece of bread and a microwaved hot dog out to it, squatting on my hams and letting it jump onto my legs and try to warm itself until the entire scene seemed without a possible solution. A little Cheyenne girl whose name I later found out was Amethyst walked up and told me I had an adorable puppy. I suspect she was about seven. She had an abrasion on her right cheek, which looked as if the scab had come off about two days ago so the scar tissue was only beginning to assert itself. The dog was shivering and whining, then playing with my shoelaces, then collapsing onto its back to have its stomach rubbed, and all the while Amethyst and I had a discussion about the virtues of the school where she attends and I teach. We decided Ammo would be a dignified name for the pup. She thought it wise of me to break the hot dog and bread up into appropriate-sized chunks before laying them on the doorstep to be scarfed up. It’s been snowing on and off for almost five days now, wet heavy snow that melts when it hits concrete and turns the earth into gumbo, clay soul that sucks at the soles of your shoes with each step. Not exactly an environment for the motherless.

I’m assuming the little puppy is dead or nearly so by now, unless Amethyst convinced her auntie to give it a home tonight. I went to check my mail, entrusting her to keep it out from underneath my wheels, and of course when I got home I took a half hour to search for it, towel in hand, ready to dry it off and redeem myself or it, whichever, by bringing it inside. Sometimes I like dogs better than humans in terms of company, and the thing is around here there are a surplus of dogs, all of which are more than willing to hang out for a day without having to commit to any long-term ownership/companion relationship. That’s a poignant metaphor to be made much of, but I’m not feeling it. I didn’t find the pup, and just now I stepped outside for a smoke with a small little particle of hope that Amethyst would be walking down the street, looking as she did this afternoon, coat halfway off, long black braids hanging off either shoulder, struggling to hold the puppy away from her body, ready to present it to me as if I’ve been selected for an experimental living situation. That’s the thing about these late night second-chance notions – they’re always already fat lady sung.